Sunday, April 3, 2011

Look, I'm gonna keep this short and sweet without all the mushy crap. Big Sharkey is gonna have to call it a day. I just honestly don't have time to write this silly thing any longer. This ain't Canberra, Daddy's gotta a full time job and a mortgage to worry about. Plus my terrorist son and wife refuse to let me even take a shit alone, do you think they'd let me sneak off for an hour to write about our beautiful boys in red pinstripes every night? It's just not the same anymore.

Yes, I will miss you all, Followers. This is the sad part. But, fuck... none of you came here to be coddled. Go and start your own blog with swearing and penises and hoagie bats and intense, sexually charged wit. It's your turn to make me laugh.

Consider the Clog as the ultimate diary of the 2010 Philadelphia Phillie season. One day you'll sit down with your shitty children and read to them from the knowledge within these pages. You will make a better quality citizen by doing so. Besides, the Facebook page will still be up to use as a bathroom wall.

So, for the last time.... fuck new york and GO FUCKING PHILLIES!!!! 2011, baby. It's gonna be a great year. OK BYE-BYE.

Friday, March 4, 2011

I know what you're thinking, Followers; why this fucking record and not something like Kill 'Em or Lightning? Granted this is an odd choice but the one that makes the most sense in my superior dome. Let me please explain without going through all the retarded song metaphors like I did with the last installment. This is a special record to me. I used to jam this cassette on my walkman down on the tracks while burning issues of Town Talk I was supposed to be delivering. I'm not fucking around.

Cliff Lee is the fucking Hammer Of Justice. He embodies everything good and fair in this silly little game of ball and bat. He says 'fuck you, cunts' to the sniveling, smug yankees fan base to come back where he belongs for less money. I know, this is all a retreading of the little fairy tail that everyone in the Delaware Valley lived through back in December but it's still a powerful yarn.

...And Justice is an album about the erosion of the fairness and morality and illustrates this notion through 9 epic fucking ragers. In many ways, Lee illustrated the same by signing back in Philly. He went with is dick, balls and heart instead of his check book. Who the fuck still uses a check book? Any jerk-off with a stupid beard and terrible attitude can bank on a big contract with a corny team, it' takes a real fucking M.A.N. to pull the shit Lee pulled. It's comforting to know that someone who's loved one was spat upon by a certain cretinous horde of rich troglodytes can serve justice in simply not giving said gaggle of filth joy through his craft. It's a man exercising his middle finger the most effective way anyone could.

Not to mention the album is fucking incredible. That's the big fucking boner parallel of them all. Awesome pitcher - awesome album, Lee likes to party - Alcoholica likes to party. Both this record and Lee could easily pitch 12 CG's this season. I don't give a flying fuck what you think, Justice has the best 'Tallica riffs recorded to date. I'm serious. Go and put this fucking thing on during Lee's start Sunday. You will be head fucking banging and air guitaring like the largest dickhead on the block because this record will rip your vagina off and nail it to your mother's face with your father's dick. Case and point:

Dyer's Fucking Eve. Must I elaborate, Followers?? Did you just fucking listen to this song? OK, then it's settled. I'm right. Again.

On a side note, last night a friend of mine who smokes and works hard made a great observation; Being a Yankee is fucking uncool now. Really, think about that. You are sort of viewed by any non-yanks fan as a total herb for being on that team. This is pretty remarkable if you think about what that team was in the 30s, 40s, 50,s 60s and even 70s. Every American boy wanted to be Babe Ruth or Lou Gehrig. Now you are the soul-less shill sniffing A-Cups jock strap for more money than most small countries are worth in front of a crowd full of homophobic yuppy cunts housed in a billion-dollar burden on society. You are a fucking tool and I love it.

Whatever, I'm babbling. Like a brook that runs through the Whole Foods in Austin; the corny capitol of America. I have to get back to hating life. Stay tuned for the next installment when we compare Roy Oswalt to Kill'Em All.

Until next time fuck new york and bake a cake for the wiggers next door. They've earned it.

Thursday, February 24, 2011

As I sit here basking in the glory of the Fightin's first fucking game/victory of the Spring Exhibiton against the FSU Semens, I thunk it no more a better time to start part 1 of my 5-installment piece comparing each pitcher of the 2011 rotation to one of the first 5 Metallica records. Yeah, I know they only got better after that but I just have no frame of reference since I wasn't dying my beard pink and moshing alone in mall parking lots after high school.

We of course fucking start out with Roy Fucking Halladay. This one was a toughey because I could've gone a few ways with this. After serious thought and arduous delineation (5 minutes at work, daydreaming) I decided that the 'Tallica jammer that most suited our top cat's everything was that 1986 masterpiece, Master Of Fucking Puppets. It's seriously, in my humble opinion, the true stand-out of the Holy First Five. It's heavy, accomplished, epic, beautiful and perfect. If you can't see the parallels you're a fucking dickhead. After all, Roy is the Master.

Like a Halladay start, Master's first cut, Battery, opens gracefully yet forebodingly with a ominous acoustic guitar intro. If you play this song in real time to the first inning by the time the gentleness of the intro ends and the fucking pure mayhem and bashing begins you usually are watching a hapless lead-off hitter getting his balls kicked in by some serious fucking heat, walking away dejected and scorned by a Halladay fist-fuck. Brutality. BATTERY!

No, things don't get much easier as the second and third innings go by as Roy continues to fucking waylay the competition to the title track of this fine album. An epic tale of substance abuse and despair barrels along like a fucking freak train to Hades (that ride must suck balls. Ask that useless dicksmoke, Pat Burrell), Master Of Puppetsalmost defines musically the Halladay game. It's melodic and veracious, taking no motherfucking prisoners. There's even apart in the middle of the tune where it slows down for a second only to lull you into a false sense of security as you are tossed back to the wolves of the heavy breakdown. James Hetfield pleads "MASTER, MASTER!! WHERE'RE THE DREAMS THAT I'VE BEEN AFTER??!! I assure you right fucking now this sentence goes through Jose Reyes' head as his hopes and dream are shattered for the 4th time of the night. Kick ass.

The 3rd track, The Thing That Should Not Be, was definitely written about the run that sometimes happens in the middle of the game when Halladay starts drifting off and thinking about his fantasy team.

Sanitarium closes out side A and pretty much sums up the feeling any opposing manager as he watches his boys get mowed down by Halladay's Viet-Cong esque gunfire. "Who am I?" or "Life is shit, why am I here?" and totally "Roy's beard is fucking perfect..." The toll this kind of battle takes on a General is heavy. The beatings are severe and can make a motherfucker go insane. Insane snakes and shit, evil metal looking horses carry your fucking brain away. You are fucked and the record is only half-way done. Can you imagine how Dusty Baker feels?

I'm not really gonna keep fucking going making stupid analogies to each track, that would take all night. I don't have that time and Roy knows it. He fucking works quick and so did Metallica. Just like a Halladay start comes and goes in a whirlwind of fucking terror and bliss, so does Puppets. BAM, BAM, BAM!!!... then its fucking done and your pants are down and your mouth is dry and your balls are stuffed in your butt. It's intense.

I leave you now with footage of what the 9th inning of a Halladay game sounds like in my head; the finale' of the album, Damage Fucking Inc. Check out the date on this clip. Duuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuude... let'sget wasted!!! It's also from their tour with Ozzy Oswalt.

Up next in a few fucking days, Followers, I'm gonna do the Cliff Fucking Lee comparison. Can you guess which record he's gonna be? I'll give you a hint, it's not fucking Stanger. Yeah, that's how I say it so that's how I'll fucking spell it. I know you all thought this might be the Lee record with the whole "Cliff 'Em All" thing going on but you were wrong. It makes sense, you'll see.

Monday, February 21, 2011

I'm just gonna come out and say it bluntly; I think Joe Blanton is a pretty shitty pitcher. Not "the best 5-hole pitcher in the league" or an "innings-eater" of any of the other soft terms bandied about by the Daily News writers and Missanelli callers to make Joe feel a little less inadequate pitching behind the 4 Horsemen. I think he stinks. I'm not saying the guy wouldn't be awesome to do 9 tequila shots with and fucking terrorize a cul de sac with, I bet the dude is a sweet, genuine dude with nothing but love in his heart to impart to his fellow man. I am plainy and simply fucking sick of him pitching in a Phillies uniform.

Last season Bologna Joe went 9-6 with a 4.82 ERA, which in itself is pretty garbagio on paper, but these numbers hardly hint at the glacier of frustration he caused me last year. The ERA can't lie but the record can. I would say had Joey pitched for, say, the Royals, his record woulda been something like 8-11 based solely on the hunch that since he wouldn't have an all-star cast behind him that he wouldn't have a crew to clean up his messes. A good Bullpen and a mercurial but decent 2010 Phils offense turned a lot of loses into N/D's.

The all too common sight.

Remember the game last season in September against the Nationals that Werth (who?) smoked his monstrous, MLB network highlight reel walk-off with 2 outs in the bottom 9th to preserve out 3 game lead over ATL in the standings? That was a Blanton game. Fucker gave up a 2 run homer to MIKE MORSE, scrubbest of the scrubs to set us back 3 runs for the last half of the game. I wanted to fuck a hole in the sky.

Yep and remember last July when we swept the Reds in a 4-gamer just before the ASB? Do you remember the game that Big Phucking Piece and Cody Fucking Ransom went yard to turn a 1-7 deficit into a 9-7 large-cocked victory for the Fightin's? Yeah, that was Joe, too. Fucking hair dwindling, vomit inducing ball-bag strangling agony.

Instead of jabbering off about the Dodgers game he fucking beefed it to that lead way to the infamous annual Choochie clowning of Jonathan Broxton in a 8 run comeback ( yeah, you fucking remember), I'm gonna give you the goods and deliver what the title of this post promises.

Top Ten Things Joe Blanton could Do Instead Of Pitching for The Phillies

10. Opening up a delicatessen that specializes in vegan cuisine called NO CHEESE.

9. Meatball Chef at Maggianos! Get it.... meatballs?

8. Style Consultant for the band Nickelback.

7. Contestant on Ru Paul's Drag Race 4!

6. The Lunch Lady in an off-Broadway production of the movie Billy Madison.

1. Pitching for the mets!!! BLLLLAAANNNNNAAAHHHH!!!!!!! (horns and shit)

Look, I'm honestly not trying to hurt big fella's feeling or talk bad about one of our boys on the odd chance that he reads this awesome Clog, I'm just trying to exercise the JB of 2010 demon. I really got nothing but love for Joe and I'm just joshin' with this hinky list. I hope this cunt comes out of the shoot and gets more wins than any or all of our beloved Horsemen. I want him to succeed. I want him to be able to give everyone the fucking finger that talked about him as the 5 of Chubbs to the 4 Aces. I want him to fucking dominate, to eviscerate and annihilate the competition. I want Bazooka Joe not Sloppy Joe. I want the world for this cat. I just hope my dreams can facilitate his excellence, kind of like the movie Inception. No, I have never seen fucking Inception.

Buck up, Blanton. Knock 'em dead. PLEASE.

Who gives a shit, he'll probably be traded before the break anyways. Fuck new york and Ladies, shave your Beibers.

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

Ahhh, Followers... Can you phucking smell it, taste it, PHEEL IT????!!!! The moist green grass underfoot, the leather oil glistening on your mitt, the stench of dogshit in your cleats that you always seem to mistake for Joe Blanton's repertoire?

That's right, motherfuckers, I'm fucking back and so is America's (The good one) national pastime. The proverbial sun is rising over a wounded and fragile Philadelphia, still in recovery of last year's Ryan Howard frozen penis and another Eagles season derailed by a first-round bouncing at home. What a fucking relief. I, for one, am sick of beating the fuck out of my fucking wife and swearing into the frigid winter winds in discontent. My balls are cold and my heart is yearning. Let's play some motherfucking baseball, Men!

It's been an interesting winter, huh, F's? Some tall dufuss named Clifton Phipher decided to not suck the dick of Satan and signed with the Fightin's. Wonder how that one will turn out. It sure must feel uncomfortable being the new guy with all th heavies we got in our rotation this year, the "4 Horsemen" and all. Joe Blanton, Kyle Kendrick, the Ball Girls for Runnemede, NJ. It's looking fierce.

The Clog this year, F's, will follow pretty much along the same lines as last year; a dairy of my life revolving around the Only Team That Matters. The only sizable difference I can see would be the amount of swearing being upped and the girth of my Hoagies Of Heat.

In the next few weeks leading up top opening day (apart from tracking team progress) I'll also slowly bring you up to speed on what I, your beautifully sculpted and chiseled Editor, have been doing with myself in these American States over the last few inactive months. Don't forget that I was in no-man's land, buttfuck Canberra last winter when I got the wild hair up my ass to start this blasted thing. This one has been a tad bit more interesting than last but, then again, watching a corpse rot beats a Canberra summer/ our winter. Good Golly , Miss Molly I'm on extacy! Rub my face and back!!!

My Spring Training coverage will contain a few features that most Phillies news outlets will not, including and not up to:

1. A Top Ten List Of Things Joe Blanton Could Be Doing Besides Pitching For My Baseball Team ala Letterman.

2. A Fucking "Vlog" From My New Job (feat. interviews with 70 year olds and Puerto Ricans on the upcoming Phillies season)

3. A Five installment piece on "Which Phillies Starter Is What Metallica Record?" (1st 5 only)

7. In-the-filed coverage from Yours Truly and our favorite Irish bag of white pudding, Chuck Meehate. we'll both be down in Clearwater for the live action and donkey shows with Chooch.

Look at that content. That's just Spring Training. By the looks of this agenda it'd probably be a good idea to keep some vaseline around for the next 8 months because you are about to be butt-fucked by seriously the hardest Phils talk around the globe. Things will probably be posted slowly as I am getting back into the swing but by Opening Day.... you better believe it's phucking on!

OK, shitheads. I'm going back to real life for a few hours. Don't forget who brings you the crudest Phillies responses and reactions with the wit to match, wontcha? It's a brand new year and a brand new reason to not die. Until next installment.......

GO MOTHERPHUCKING FIGHTIN'S AND FUCK NEW YORK, WE GOT CLIFF. YOU HAVE SHIT! Good luck with A.J. Burnett.

JSIII

P.S. There will be way more typos this year, as well. Deal with it. See yous in a few.

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

So, I've had a few days to do my little piss-pants dance and get over the fact that we're not going to be playing tonight. It's fine, really. I've come to rationalize in my head the many reasons why I should not kill myself. I have a wonderful family, my birthday is tomorrow so maybe I'll get something cool, I still haven't seen Social Network...

In a drunken haze I kinda wrote this last column for the Philadelphia Weekly about why you shouldn't be a Debbie-Downer sour-fucking -puss about being eliminated by the corny giants. Yes, it stings to lose to such dick-in-mouth busters but folks, really, let's be honest.They played a better series. I hate to agree with a front office pencil pusher but even Rube was right. The Phils didn't have a single hot player during the entire post season offensively. It was all defensive swinging and hope. Kind of like a those parties my parents used to go to.

Here's the column peppered with a little extra that sure as fuck wouldn't have made it into the Liberal Times of Philadelphia without a roofie for the Editor and a costume change for it's readership. They always take my fucks away. I honestly can't write anymore about this end at the moment. It's still too fresh on the brain and in many respects I'm not a journalist, I'm just a fan with a razor sharp wit and large vocabulary of dicks and sacks. I try to be objective but most times it stings. I still can't not call-out the team for not showing the fuck up, I just do it for considerably less money. Still I offer a slightly tender seasons-end piece.

And just like that it’s over. The Phils lose, life sucks again. My days will be filled with meaningless crapola like raising my son and beating my wife until the sun dawns on the spring. Though, as I sit here all busted up about the loss to San Fran and subsequent elimination, I am filled not with anger, but with bittersweet pride. I cannot look back on this series, or season for that matter, with a sour puss. And yes, I’ve tried.

Sure they pretty much handed the Giants that series and couldn’t do dick with runners in scoring position. Why didn’t fucking Howard just swing the fucking bat? Why didn’t Mike Sweeney get the bat instead of Gload in Game 6? What was up with Utley, was he secretly injured? So many questions and so many dreams flushed down the fucking toilet, but I’m not here to piss and moan about it. Of course I’d like to light AT&T park on fire, piss on the ciders and then shit in that cunt Pat Burrell’s steroids, but that’s just not in the cards. A season of dramatic highs and devastating lows is in our rearview and all I can do is swell.

Who among you could’ve predicted that our boys would’ve taken us into late October nights back in dimal May and June? Not one of us could’ve hoped to be sullenly reading this stupid column right now after watching a weary Jamie Moyer get teed-off on for nine runs in the first two innings of inter-league play at Fenway or Jayson Werth go 104 at-bats without a home run.

None of us could’ve expected a National League Division Series Champs T-shirt to be covering our unfuckable, fat bodies after watching Ross Gload, Wilson Valdez, Juan Castro and Greg Dobbs (well, maybe not) put more men across the plate than our trusties for most of the early summer. When we got shut out for an entire series in Flushing against the worthless Mets did any of you think we’d be punching a hole in our walls over an NLCS defeat?

Consolation is the weakest of prizes but there are a few that can comfort us in this hour of defeat. The Braves—our closest divisional rival ability-wise—bit the dust in a most disgraceful manner as they wished fond farewell to their longtime skipper, Bobby Cox. He'll have plenty of time to beat his wife after retirement to satiate his desire for victory but still don't you think the 'necks wanted to bring him home another title?

Look at the sorry Mets. A billion games back and a billion sad sacks wear those colors. At the season’s end they’re without a manager, general manager and dignity. The next 2 men that step into those roles better bring wear condoms on every appendage.

Out of 162 games we owned 97 of them in a year that saw our top stud, Roy Halladay, pitch two no-hitters. We watched Chase Utley call Jonathan Sanchez a pussy on national television and witnessed a journeyman by the name of Wilson “The Goat” Valdez win the hearts and rotten minds of us all as he played manly substitute for half our beat up infield.

We got to witness Roy Oswalt play left-fucking-field in lieu of Rual Ibanez who was taking over for Howard at first after the Big Guy was ejected for damn near eating the third base umpire’s face off in a 16-inning slog against the Astros.

We saw Shane Victorino stick a grand slam up the ass of Johan Santana, and Carlos Ruiz pretty much demoralize Jonathan Broxton every chance he could, batting .1000 off the big horse and almost single-handedly having him demoted from the Dodgers’ closer role.

We can’t forget the aged heroics of Jamie Moyer, who for the first half of the season seemed to be our most reliable starter. At 47, he became the oldest pitcher in the history of the game to toss a shutout back in May against the Braves. Yeah, sure he also broke Robin Roberts record by giving up his 506th career home run, but that’s an indication of longevity, not poor skill.

Really, anyone pissing up a stink about the shit they’ve gone through this summer might as well move to England and follow that other game that’s like baseball, except you wear skirts and have tea breaks.

No one in their right mind can deny that the Phillies are a team to be reckoned with. My whole childhood was spent feeling like I was part of the losers’ class, like my team was a joke. But now we’ve got a team with the balls to dominate the fucking weak. As a city we are sitting pretty, even as we lick our wounds.

I’d like to thank our boys for the ride. Sadly some of you won’t be back next year. Jayson Werth will most likely be embarrassing that fraud Nick Swisher for the big-bucks in New York, and Mike Sweeney will most likely find a new home on a new team that needs man-hugs. You will be missed. Watching Sweeney cry in the post-game 6 interview broke my calloused heart. I think I may start a petition to have that man in the Phils dugout no matter fucking what next year. Don't worry, Mike. None of us want you to go home either.

The rest of you get your beauty sleep, some good wifey pussy and have your shit together for Clearwater. Good show, men. Good show.

See, I was looking on the bright side. It would've been too easy to draw dicks coming out of Howard's face so I went the drunken, take it on the chin route. As my friend Richie Penetrator--wanted in 3 counties-- put it "You gotta enjoy the highs and suppress the lows of sports." I know that sounds idealistically stoic but he does have a point. I could remain in my underwear, crying, masturbating, crying but I'd rather just masturbate.

This isn't the end of TBSS either, Followers. I'll be popping back in from time to time with trade rumors and interesting anecdotes to keep you savages laughing. I am, after all, Mr. Funny Man. Thank yous all for reading, F's. Without the 41 of you out there in interbutthole land I would have no reason to get up before 2pm, sexually.

Fuck new york and GO CLIFF LEE!

JSIII

P.S. Cody Ross is going to be a Phillie next year. I'm not excited either. Probably Jeff Francoeur, too.